


Rainbow

by Sidonie



Series: The King's Squire [11]
Category: Protector of the Small - Tamora Pierce
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-17
Updated: 2011-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-20 12:07:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sidonie/pseuds/Sidonie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which one can see small, colorful snapshots of Zahir's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Purple

**Author's Note:**

> Highly unoriginal in that these mostly unconnected ficlets are inspired by the colors of the rainbow. The association is sometimes direct, sometimes not. Only the last one is slashy. These can be read on their own, but are part of my King's Squire series (see "Proposal" for an explanation of why).

The first time he met the Lady Alanna, all Zahir could think about was the color of her eyes. They washed over him, regal and cool and quite unlike every rumor he'd heard from his friends. He shifted uncomfortably under their gaze, quite unsettled by the strange shade, the feeling of other-worldliness and power bubbling beneath the surface of her stare.

“I'm not happy with this, Jon,” she stated bluntly.

He couldn't summon the courage to look away and see his knight-master, but the king's voice was rich and warm, the tone he used for testy courtiers and skittish diplomats. “He no longer takes part in the hazing. His work is sound, his mind quick, and his physical abilities impressive. Politically speaking, he's perfect: a conservative and a Bazhir. I don't see what you would object to.”

The corner of her mouth twitched in a fleeting expression of scorn. “Character.” With no further explanation, she turned on her heel and walked quickly away.

“I didn't ask for your opinion!” Jon yelled after her. Then he too strode off, his polite, kingly mask dropped in favor of a scowl.

Zahir was left alone. “I wish he wouldn't talk about me like I'm not here,” he muttered to no one in particular.


	2. Blue

Jon stood back, admiring his squire's new attire. The blue tunic was of rich cloth, made more expensive by the intensity of the color and the intricate embroidery. The Conté crest was worked in fine silver thread over his heart, and the king regarded it with a sense of ownership. He had taken this misguided boy and elevated him to unimaginable heights, at the same time defying tradition and pulling off a political coup. It would have been perfect but for near-undetectable shadow of misery in the Bazhir youth's expression.

“Is something wrong?” Jon asked.

Zahir grimaced in reply. “I look terrible in blue.”


	3. Green

“I, uh—Sir?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“I don't think—I'm not going to be able to—”

Jon stood from his desk, hastily scattering drying sand over a newly drafted proclamation. “Can it wait? We should be at the Council meeting now.” He glanced up and caught sight of his squire swaying in the doorway. “Mithros, are you all right? You look rather green.”

Zahir closed his eyes in a valiant attempt to stop the room from spinning. “Not—going to make it—meeting,” he choked out.

Still gathering papers, the king cast him a vaguely worried look. “Go find the healers, get it cleared up. I need you this afternoon for the audience with the delegation from the Bazhir. Don't forget.” He swept out of the room, the door closing far too loudly in his wake.

Clutching the nearest piece of furniture, Zahir took a step, then pitched forward, landing in a heap on the floor. “Find the healers,” he muttered. “Not—that easy.”


	4. Yellow

When Zahir entered the practice field, he was surprised to see his knight-master lying on the ground, face tipped up toward the sky. He approached warily, half-afraid he would find Jon bleeding and lifeless, assassinated by some enemy of the Crown.

His fears were allayed, however, when Jon opened his eyes, blinking up at the concerned face hovering above him. “You're blocking the light,” he said.

“Are you actually _basking_? I thought only Tkaa did that, and he's almost a lizard, so he has an excuse.”

Jon wrinkled his nose at his squire, lifting a lazy hand and pushing him back. “I have been stuck inside the palace all winter hunched over my paperwork. Allow me some relaxation. Besides, consider it a lesson. An essential part of being a knight is learning when to loosen up and enjoy yourself. Soak in the wonders of the natural world, commune with Mithros, and so on and so forth.” He accompanied this so-called lecture with grandiose gestures, and Zahir couldn't help but laugh as he folded his legs and sat in the dirt beside his king.

“So are we sparring today?”

“Don't be silly.”


	5. Orange

Edged in shadow and awash in candlelight, even the king's apartments could appear cozy. Zahir curled up on a chair, listening to the constant scratching of Jon's quill, absently working grease into his tack. The earthy smell and the feel of the supple leather in his hands comforted him, all blending together in a rhythm that seemed too domestic for the life of the king's squire.

“Do you ever stop working?” he queried, voice slightly slurred with lack of sleep.

Jon smiled, pulling out a new feather and a trimming knife. He shaped the quill with swift, practiced strokes, his ink-stained fingers testing the point before continuing with his writing.

“Not really,” he replied.


	6. Red

It had started with a blow, the sound of Jon's fist thudding into his jaw, the moment when his vision went red and his knees buckled. He slid to the floor, one desperate grab pulling his knight-master down beside him. Tears welled up in his eyes and he balled his hands into fists, blinking furiously as he attempted to clear them.

Adding insult to injury, Jon put an arm around his shoulder, his other hand gently testing the spot where he had connected. “You've been distracted today,” he remarked.

Zahir took a deep, shaky breath. “I just can't—can't concentrate sometimes,” he managed.

His deft fingers catching his squire under the chin, Jon studied the bruise, then leaned in and deftly pressed a cool kiss to the inflamed skin. He put his lips to Zahir's ear, his whisper barely audible.

“I know the feeling.”


End file.
